


Abandoned

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 2: Queens' Play, Book 3: Disorderly Knights, Communes, Cults, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Prompt Fill, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vulnerability, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Oonagh O'Dwyer wants nothing more to do with Cormac or Lymond or O'Liamroe. She's taking her unplanned pregnancy to a rural retreat, somewhere to heal and learn and have some peace before she takes control of her new life. Unfortunately, this is the kind of commune where only one person can give you permission to leave, and he has other plans for her and her child.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 4
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Abandoned

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 26 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188604904744/whumptober-26)

Oonagh O'Dwyer knew how to plan meticulously. The irony of this was not lost on her when she found herself with an unlooked-for pregnancy. It was a thing she had never expected to happen, not now, not to her, not as she proved she could still keep up with the hedonism of the beautiful young things of the European pop world and the West Berlin trendsetters. She was an unmarried woman in her mid-thirties, whose modelling career had wreaked havoc on the normal rhythms of her body, but it did not take her long to rally and reassert control. She wanted it, and she wanted nothing to do with whichever man shared responsibility for the situation.

A friend mentioned the ashram, and to Oonagh it seemed like a perfect place to spend half a year's waiting. As far from the squalor and choking shadows of the city as she could be, steeped in the nostalgia of big skies and open air drawn from an imaginatively reconstructed girlhood.

Oonagh had spent her adult life standing in poses devised by others; striding down runways with cool indifference; scowling on the arm of a man full of dangerous ideas (and an even more dangerous past). She craved the physicality of a different existence; the strange thrill of seeing her body take over and loose the tight bonds of control she'd kept on it year after year, season after season, runway after runway.

Oonagh packed a bag full of gaudy bright clothes: reds and pinks and oranges labelled with the names of the world's most exclusive fashion houses, in colours like sweet wrappers that made her giggle with uncharacteristic glee in her London hotel room. She flew by Concorde across the Atlantic, and changed to a domestic service that took her out to Reno.

The final leg of the journey seemed to pile bliss upon bliss: driven by a member of the ashram, Oonagh was free to lean an arm out of the passenger window, the wind making her black hair coil and writhe, the hot desert air rippling the red fabric of her dress. All the trappings of artificiality seemed to fall away mile by mile as the landscape reared up around them and the straight highway was exchanged for winding gravel roads, the empty scrub replaced by tough little conifers.

On arrival, she was welcomed by the designated leader, who thanked her warmly for her donation. "Welcome to the fold," he told her in rich English tones. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well-muscled, but he held himself a little hunched as if to diffuse any of the more threatening aspects of his build. His hair was bright like ancient metal, as though he wore a golden laurel wreath on his high, lightly freckled forehead. He assigned Oonagh work where she wanted it: in the outdoors, on the edges of forests full of endless possibility, with people who laughed easily but respected Oonagh's preference for a wry smile and the avoidance of over-familiar touching.

For several months she chopped wood, dug holes and carried buckets of earth and stone. She was stronger and fitter than she'd ever been, long tawny limbs burnished by sun and wind and surrounded by the hormonal halo of a body that she was no longer at war with. When her belly got too big for this work, she took to the sewing room and learned how the clothes she had made her living off were put together.

When her time came near, Oonagh had a home-made wardrobe fit for a new-born. She had new friends and a new idea of what satisfaction was. She looked forward to leaving with nothing but gratitude for the time spent there: the ashram had been a wondrous place in which to grow, but there was nothing like the modern medical facilities of California, and Oonagh planned to take no risks. She would pack up her colourful suitcase, soothe the kicking child inside her through the long drive back over the mountains, and be in a private ward at the UCSF Medical Centre within a day. Arrangements had been made; all the visits and check-ups she needed had been completed through recent months, and all was going according to plan.

The way she stumbled on the wooden porch of the home she was leaving was not part of this plan. Oonagh held onto the painted pillar at the doorway and blinked at the strange awareness of nausea. A chill laid its arms around her shoulders and she touched wondering fingers to the clammy skin of her forehead. Offers of help circled her, hands guided her to sit down on the dusty steps, and all through it she struggled to understand what had gone wrong. She stroked her swollen abdomen and murmured apologies, but her intentions only grew firmer: "I need to get to San Francisco," she repeated.

The leader of the ashram was called. His voice, warm and indulgent like molasses, trembled with worry. "My dear, what has happened?"

Oonagh told him that nothing had happened; it was just a passing weakness. She would be in the best care her money could buy in under six hours.

"Travel? On these roads, in your state?" He gasped and crouched in front of her. He enfolded her hands with his, which were surprisingly soft, and his ice-blue eyes virtually welled up with care. "Sister, you must not. The risk is far too great."

Oonagh glanced up at the other worried expressions around her. She had not had any fear before now; she had trusted her body to do what it had to do. Doubt seeped into her thoughts. "I have a plan," she said, but it sounded strangely meek to her ears. Her head seemed to have filled up with interference, like grime on a window; her heart rate did not seem to relate to any level of exertion she had put herself to.

"Oh, my dear," the leader of the ashram repeated, smoothing his thumbs over the skin of her hands. "I fear we will have to abandon your plan."


End file.
